


Dei intra machinam

by Luukiead



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Cyberpunk!AU, F/F, F/M, I'll get around to doing more, Inspired by 'The Matrix' Creepypasta, Inspired by Tasty Network, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-02-18 09:58:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2344295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luukiead/pseuds/Luukiead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Kirschtein has an average job, an average life that he trundles through alone. His work is mundane, just like everything else about him and his world... Everything, that is, except for a secret he keeps close to his chest through the fear of being outcasted. After all, the flashes of names and numbers he sees aren't normal, right? </p><p>Not in his world anyway. Not in a place where everything was decided for him the moment of his conception.  </p><p>But all of that changes when a stranger who just cannot stop the sounds in his head steals him away, and shows Jean that the world he knew is smaller than he could ever have imagined, and that he is more unique and extraordinary than he may ever realised.<br/>STUFF GOING DOWN WITH THIS. IM REDOING IT, MORE DETAILS ON 3RD CHAPTER.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. -.-. .-.. .. -.-. -.- // (Click)

**Author's Note:**

> I shouldn't be writing new stuff... oh well.

Jean worked a normal nine to five job in Centre District. He woke up at seven to shower, forgot to make breakfast, and caught the rail by eight to turn up at his desk at the office and log in to the system by two minutes to nine.

That was his life.

There was no one liked enough to spend his time with. There were no friends, no lovers or close colleagues to go to bars or talk to. When he clocked out at five at the end of every day other than a Thursday, he went home and cooked the same pasta meal to then fall asleep on the couch and wake up to the same alarm that flooded his apartment, the same crick in his neck as always.

That was his life.

Day after day he never questioned it. The jobs he got were always the same, the same systems and the same big-wig customers with too much money and too little time. The algorithms he made and sold were just another asset to add to the short list of other desirable features he possessed. A grumpy attitude, DNA designed to be just as his parents had wanted him to be- a model that fell into the system of the world he lived in and no one questioned. This, and a secret he hid because it did not fit in to his world.

That was his life.

A life he had no opinion on. Nothing was his choice, everything planned for him in advance; his job in tech support at A.I Industries, his flat on the east side of Centre District, his paycheck, his vacation times and his looks. Everything was decided and normal. Designed to fit in.

That was his life. But it was not the one he wanted.

And when he collapsed on the floor in his government issued apartment and shook like a leaf with no one to see… everything changed, because that was the day his world expanded and blossomed, the day he became a human, broke his weak life and began to live as he should. That was the day he saw the numbers for the first time, and that meant everything.

 

 -- ---  -.  -..  .-  -.-- /.----  …--  -  ….  /  -.  ---  …-  .  --  -…  .  .-. / -.--  .  .-  .-. / ..-  .-.-.-  .--.  .-.-.-   --…

Sir,” Jean spat, running his hand through his dark undercut for the millionth time that afternoon, “I can’t lower the price just because the problem with your C-325 was less complicated. It’s a standard hourly rate and it took me four hours to find the fault and fix it, plus the cost of the replacement fan. Even if it was just a heating problem, which by the way is not my job sir, you are still contractually obliged to pay for the hours I worked on your PD. You were lucky with the fact that I have some experience with this model, otherwise you’d end up paying fifteen hundred bits for my time, even without whatever a mechanic would ask which would likely be close to the same.”

The personal device on the desk looked at him with blank, camera eyes. It was still covered in oil, the smooth surface of its animalistic face slippery, the new fan whirring pleasantly.

The man over the phone wouldn’t stop huffing. “But that wasn’t the problem,” he groaned over the communication device in Jeans ear. “The thing was bugged, I swear.”

Jean sighed, one of many that he’d collected out of frustration. He leant back in his chair and stared at the pipes on the ceiling. “Each system I get gets the same treatment. I’ve updated the firewall and security systems as a matter of policy. This costs you nothing extra. The C-325 had no problems, no bugs and-“                                                                                                                                               

“It can’t have done. The thing was glitching. It didn't work at all.”

 

The PD on Jean’s desk yapped and shook its head as if it were disagreeing. It displayed the actions programmed into it the shades of blue and green lighting across it's glass body bright and almost new. Already, a message waited to be opened. But he had seen nothing wrong with the thing when he'd logged it in to the system. There was no reason to glitch and nothing off other than the fan. He shrugged.

“I don’t know why that was happening. I can only say the thing overheated itself and causing some of the circuiting to cut.” The thing yaps again, another message flying on the screen on its tiny chest. Its legs skirt it around Jeans desk and leave behind a disgusting trail of oil.  He wanted to smash the damn thing. “Once I receive the money, your PD can go back to you. Your total cost is fifteen hundred bits plus express delivery of fifty. Do you want this debited from the account already registered with us?”                                                                                                                                             

The man sighed once more, and Jean looked to the clock hastily. Only half an hour until he could go home.

Boredly, he tapped the details in on the screen in front of him and listened to the final ranting of the customer. He felt so sick of them acting like they were the authority of everything ‘PD’, when they, in reality, knew jack shit-- blah blah, ‘I know my PD’, blah blah… whatever. He just grimaced over the line and acted polite for the sake of it until the com cut off and he could sigh and turn his nose up at the gunky mess in front of him.

He spend the last twenty minutes of his working day cleaning the thing off with a rag he kept hidden away before the maintenance bots could take it to be incinerated, packaging the fixed PD in a box and labelling it, and most importantly of all pretending that he didn’t see the email from his boss about completing the big project for Shadis that he’d been avoiding because the formulae were so tedious. He couldn’t bring himself to. The damn thing just wouldn’t piece together even though it should, and it was starting to piss him off.

When the bell eventually rung he stood as all the others in the office and slung his thin jacket on. The black fabric rippled down his front and hung loose in the hood over his face just as everyone else's did. He clocked out with a press to his initials, J.K, on the wall and stepped out into Centre.

 

 At that time of year the whole sky was dark with dirty clouds and backed up by a pallid green light. Every building shone from ground to heavens with the light from apartments and neon signs screaming out the names of new gaming systems, PDs and home bots… A.I Industries advertising over his own head in a blinding white that drowned the street below along with smiling women and glamour and wealth he couldn’t have. Everything glowed for miles into the distance and without ending, twenty-four-seven and counting. It would never stop. The day never got the chance to cut through the green smog and the bright city lights against the black of dirty buildings that pointed to the world above.

 Jean headed to the station, the road packed with every other body from every other job, the flow of the world around him leading him in the direction he needed to go. He kept his head low and walked with the crowd, ignoring everyone and everything, only interacting with the turnstyle with a swipe of his finger over the sensor pad to let him past.

It responded with a beep and he passed through, eyes catching on a woman doing the same next to him. They shared the same blonde hair and golden eyes, the same pale and flawless skin. Then again, most of these people did. Not unless they were a dark haired, ivory skinned beauty from Top or an earthy, heavy average from Ground.  Centre folk all had the same look of hair that was blonde to dark at the roots, bodies lithe and with minds like whips, the only difference the slight shift in facial shape, or perhaps the random splash of colour from one person’s hair and the slight variant in eyes; clear honey to dusky gold' or blue on an exceptionally rare occasion. The rest were kept similar in black clothes that hung loose on their legs around the knees, black vests or turtlenecks, and jackets of the same lightless shade, some with hoods and some without.

 

He missed the first train that evening, the sweep of musty air rushing past as he pushed through the crowd, and Jean thought back over his work as he waited on the platform. But his mind kept slipping back to just a few days ago and the numbers and names that flashed in his head like a bad song he couldn’t discard from his mind. So instead he warranted the tedium of thinking about how he would stop Shadis’ modelling system from failing as it tried to get past the already impossible standards… all to the tune of a random clicking.                                                                                                                          

_Click. Cli-cli click… click. Click. Cli-cli-cli-cli. Click._

 Jean ignored the odd repetition of this new noise for the most part, stepping on the train and revising numbers. It was mostly drowned out anyway, the rattling of the train across the high paths of the city, wrapping around the top of the skyscrapers like metal snakes, traffic far below.

Bodies were packed in, close and hot. Someone was pressed up against Jean’s back, a PD skittering around his feet and growling at something he couldn’t quite make out.

Stop by stop the train grew quieter, the groups of people thinner. That, however, didn’t stop the clicking. It annoyed Jean so much that he took out his phone and looked at it, trying to see if it was the source. It wasn’t, so he looked around and found that the sound had no direction. The man with the tablet wasn’t making it, nor was the woman with the suitcase. It came from everywhere and nowhere at once, and Jean grew impatient.

 

His stop finally came, the doors sliding open with a ping. Gratefulness washed over him when the incessant clicking stopped as he stepped out underneath the scaffolding of the station and rails and made his way up a flight of stairs over a highway, stragglers in the cold air around him, and turned right to follow a walkway that passed between two scrapers.

That was when it happened. The clicking. But this time it was closer, and Jean spun around to try and find the source but saw nothing behind him. There was no one to make the noise. The source was somewhere unknown.

He picked up his pace, keeping the hood down over his eyes and his hands in his pockets. The pad of his thumb idled over the auto-dial button on the phone.

Cli-cli-click. Click click click. Click-cli- A man walking in the opposite direction halts the clicking. Jean wasn’t sure if the other man noticed the look of horror in his eyes, but it was there. The clicking only happened around him. He walked faster, turning corners and hoping that it would fade, that the clicking would go and he could be alone in the quiet buzz of the city.

But it didn’t go. It carried on, clicking, the pace getting quicker, his footsteps following  their rush as he hoped that he could get back before the clicking got to him before--

 

“Jean Kirschetin!”

A deep voice called to him from the darkness behind him and on instinct he spun, hood falling. His eyes fell wide at the figure behind him, dark and masked and male. The strength in his stature was impressive, thick shoulders and arms, narrow waist and muscular legs clad in ripped jeans, boots up to his calves and drenched in straps and buckles. Everywhere was, in fact, including the face which sported an outline of a skull across black leather. It covered the man’s mouth but his eyes were visible and almost black against the light of the city.                                                                                           

Jean turned to run but the man was quick, running across the walkway to Jean and spinning him into a firm hold. Round eyes tracked his face with surprise.

“Holy shit,” the man murmured, and in his hand something went cli-click-cli-cli, “it is you.” Jean, on the other hand, was having none of it. He swung his arms in violent protest, hitting the man’s arms and chest. All the other man did was flinch slightly and grimace.

“Fucking let me go asshole!” Jean bellowed. “What the fuck!” But the man didn’t let go. He stuck on to Jean as he wriggled around in his arms and yelled for help. Instead he just looked overjoyed, eyes wide and happy.

“Oh thank hell. I thought I’d have to spend all night looking for you, Princess.” The clicks carried on in his hand, speeding up.                 

Jean, however, was more occupied with his new nickname to care about the clicks any more. “What the fuck did you just call me?” His voice is angry, threatening the stranger that won’t relinquish his grip. “Get the hell off me you fucking creep.”

“Hey hey, chill okay? It’s just a codename,” the man chuckled. The warm sound muffled beneath the mask but still came out peculiarly friendly. It unnerved Jean. “I just need you to come with me--“

 

Jean spat in his face, gob slipping down the man's mask. The dark eyes grew wide, but never angry. They just watched as Jean squirmed beneath the firm grip. The man wiped his face on his shoulder.

“Get the actual fuck off me you piece of shit or I swear I’m gonna-“

 

But it was too late. The man had slipped down the mask and smiled brightly, white teeth glowing in the neon light. Between his teeth he held a white pill slick with wet, which he then sucked quickly into the dark curve of his mouth before hurriedly pressing his soft lips to Jeans.

The first thing he felt was a wet tongue gliding over the cracks in his lips, the burn soft but still sore, and without even thinking he opened them up in shock, gasping at the intrusion and stunned by the movement. Lips moved, melding Jean’s and willing them to play along with nips and hot dips. The man breathed out over damp and swollen lips, freezing them against the night air. Jean rasped a breath in surprise.

And then, without warning, the tongue slipped past once more. Wet heat slid over the roof of his mouth and he shivered into the kiss, the tongue retreating to push warm lips further in, along with a tiny solid object that the tongue expertly darted in to chase the pill down Jean’s mouth with a bite to the lower lip. He ended it all with a firm peck and the man pulled back, dark eyes wide and shining. The leather mask slips over his mouth once more, but Jean notices the smug smile lifting the man’s cheeks, his own face hot and glowing red with the lack of air.

Jean automatically gulped. Then, after a few moments, he realised. Jean wanted to punch himself for his own stupidity.

 

“What the fuck was that?” The man let him stumble away, the hand that wasn’t clicking reaching up to adjust the mask and unfurrow the creases. He shrugged.

“Precaution. We can’t trust you yet so I’ve just given you a light anaesthetic so I can carry you to the safe haven without fear of it being found out.”

Jean reached up to his neck, feeling the thing slide down, a dry and nasty lump in his throat. It made him feel sick to his empty stomach, the stupid thing scratching along his throat. It didn't kick in just then, but he still stumbled back and gagged, tripping over his own feet and collapsing on the floor right beside the concrete fencing. He struggled to get back up, legs beginning to fail him in his fear. The man walked towards him, eyes studying every inch of Jean’s figure, the panic in his face. He had the audacity to shush Jean.

"It's okay Princess. I'm not gonna hurt you." He tilted his head to the side and chuckled. "Your photo didn't do you justice, y'know."

"Pi-" Jean stuttered, swallowing thickly and willing his eyelids to stay open. It acted fast, he noted, although the lack of  food during the day probably didn’t help the process slow down. "Piss o-off," he eventually finished. The man laughed.

“I can't. Not without you, anyway. Now!" the man knelt down to sit directly in front of Jean. The look he gave Jean was sympathetic, finger still tapping out a sequence Jean couldn't understand on a metal thing in the man’s hand. "Are you going to be good and put your arms around my neck like a monkey, or do I need to tie your hands and feet and sling you over my shoulder like a dead dog?"

The expression on Jean’s face mixed a chemical tiredness with shock and the choice between a rock and a hard place. It looked comically young, like a small child trying not to fall asleep and attempting to argue as it pouts and sucks its thumb. He didn't want to, Jean knew this was a bad idea, but everything was hazy and cold. It was an equally bad idea to lie unconscious this close to winter, especially in East Central where the streets were rough but the people rougher. Eventually, though, Jean sticks his arms out lazily, head drooping to one side, and the man picks him up with a tired sigh that finished in a gruff have, and wrapped Jeans long legs around his hips, holding him in place with his free hand. The other still clicked away, _cli-cli. Click. Click-click-click-cli-cli-cli_

Jean had no clue what was happening, but he was warm, and snuggling up close to the man in his haze seemed preferable to everything fading into blackness. "Mist-hmmm," he griped.

"Yes Princess?" The man asked voice gentle but smiling. Jean could almost feel the softness- like silk- and closed his eyes to the blackness and let out a breath he didn't know he was holding in. He didn't notice the name had stuck.

"Wha's your na-amm..." Jean shoved his nose hard against the warmth surround him and yawned.

Behind him, the _cli-cli-click-cli_ of the thing the man held melded into one long hum of soothing noise, drowning out cars and the blaring of horns. Everything moved, even steps taking him away in his forced sleep like the rocking of waves. He barely noticed as they got quicker as the man ran further and further from Jean’s home.

Jean clutched in his sleep, blissfully unaware of what was happening, and through the pants of his breath the man spoke, low and quiet.

"Hermes." He mumbled. "For now, I'm Hermes. Okay Jean?"

 

The man could never be sure if Jean heard those last words, but it was a start.


	2. ..- -. .-.. --- -.-. -.-  // (Unlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've changed to first person and it's staying. I prefer the voice.

The room I stood in was infinite; the ceiling shone with an ethereal light, rippling like water onto the marble flooring and uniform filing cabinets that lined the walls. Everything was muffled, muted, as though I were swimming in the room and not standing and pondering the excited clenching of my stomach.

I’d been here before, not long ago in fact, facing these same endless walls and corridors carved into the rows and rows of glistening filing cabinets. It all welcomed me back with a warm familiarity, almost homely. The golden tint of light was so much more pure than the grey of Centre. I preferred it, seemed more alive when I reached my hand out to catch a particular shining ripple on the back of my hand. My skin was no longer grey but warm, tinted a light pink but mostly a pale rustic olive, and everything else was more vibrant too.

I stepped through the ripples and saw before me my own shadow, stretching long and thin across the marble flagstones, its arm outstretched to take me to where it wanted to go. Every step it took my body took with it, not out of my control, not unpleasant, but as though what I saw was just my soul guiding me and I wanted to follow.

Its arm outstretched, the shadow bent to turn a corner. It lengthened and almost called for me to catch up to it. Our distances spread. I broke into a run, I wanted to follow it. I wanted to be pulled along by the thing, the excitement I didn’t understand, the outcome I would come to regret. But this was the part I had become almost addicted to, the chase. The shadow laughed, beckoned with talon fingers that scratched silence along the metal walls, ran flat across the pebbled light unaffected. It teased and purposely got me feeling agitated, stomach clenching an anger and annoyance. Even though I knew that not matter at what pace I took it, the shadow would still have to wait for me. It couldn’t open a drawer on its own.

That was when I noticed how uneven my footsteps were. Unlike normal there was no steady _thump thump thump_ but instead _tha- thump tha- tha- thump thump_. My legs didn’t hurt, there was no single one that I raced to catch myself up onto in the run. But I pushed past it. My gaze was still steady, the shadow having to shorten itself as it came up to the target. It rippled with anticipation, as did the room. The golden sunlight softened but quickened and I felt as though if I looked up I would see the sun and the humming surface of water. Only the ceiling was a blinding white as always.

My footsteps slowed, catching up to the shadow that stood just over me, just slightly stretched and slightly taller. It was still my shadow- the hair is instantly recognisable. But unlike my hand my shadow’s desperately grappled at the handle of a cabinet polished so vigorously that it even reflected the dark shape besides me.

“This?” I asked it. The shadow nodded, running a hand through its hair to control its patience, and stepped back and out of my vision.

Then I was shoved, pushed forward towards the cabinet. I looked to find the shadow but saw nothing. My hands itched. They burned to touch the cool metal and I couldn’t help it. I reached out and ran by hands along the perfect, savouring the cool against my charred palms and breathing my contentment. The rippling of the sky calmed, the wind above water dying down.

The handle protruded from the drawers neatly. Every foot or so had a new one. But the one that I was interested in was the fourth one up. Sometimes it was the first, sometimes one right at the top. I’d never know, but this time I was lucky. Every one was unique. This one seemed as though it dripped the same mercuric metal as the cabinet. My fingers got covered when they ran over the top. It dripped in my palm when I took the handle and pulled.

A weight in me was drawn back as I did. Something deep moved in my chest as I tugged, and I felt stronger than ever. This too was addictive. An unknown and unlimited source of power lay within my chest just waiting for the tug-o-war with what lay inside.

At first it barely moved, inching forward in a horrific shriek that shook the ripples as though a storm were starting on the surface. My heartbeat picked up, erratic. _Ba- ba du- bam du-du- bump._ The pressure built. My hands were slippery with molten metal but I ignored it, leaning back against the struggle of the fight and tugging, heaving, groaning as it reluctantly moved with me and flakes of ancient rust landed on the floor and melted away in the light.

Deeper and deeper it went, the metal turning to rust, then wrought iron and then stone, finally ending in a wood when I reached as far as it would go. Blood pulsed in my ears so strangely, unable to track what it would do next. It fit the swirl of the light.

That, however was not what I was interested in. What caught my fancy was the yards and yards of drawer in front of me, corridor stretching in my dream to accommodate it. Inside the drawer, compacted tightly, was line after line of blood red slabs, like glass with deep liquid inside. They were perhaps an inch thick, and rough cornered but square and all almost identical. There was no way to tell one apart from another but somehow I managed. I also never knew what one fully looked like. My dreams never got to that stage.

I slipped out from the end and made my way around to the left, right hand skimming along the surfaces of each slab. The liquid inside moved towards my finger, magnetised and excited. The deep red grew darker. Like smoke it clouded and bellowed. As soon as my finger passed over the glass it melted away, dissolved again and went back to being still. I lost count of how many times I had done this, of why it gave my sleeping skin goosebumps. But it did. Even then I knew how much my mind whirred at something unknown in preparation. I lived from the instinct, the feeling of what would happen. Like before a chase, it was fight or flight. I was ready for it, revelling in the anticipation of knowledge, the unique feeling it gave me.

_ba-bam-bump bu-bu-bam_

I was almost at the wood of the drawer when something inside me screamed to stop. My fingers stuck, caught on a slab that latched onto me, engrained my skin.

That was it. That was the one I was looking for. The light around me curled and celebrated. Heartbeat racing, fluttering.

I curled my hand around the top of the slab and pulled it out. The slab grew darker, impossibly concentrated along my palm, the drip of remnant metal sticking to the slab and making it easy to pry from the rest.  Everything pushed at me to hurry up, my mind screaming at me to get this thing, hold it in my hands and feel its weight- and so I leant over the drawer and stuck my left hand on to the slab, tugging with everything I had, feeling the surge of black as it stopped sitting idly in the glass box and knocked around, trying to escape.

And with one final tug the slab was released. Glass shattered onto the floor. The light stopped shining and the room was black, smoke and darkness consuming everything. My breathing had become non-existent. I could only concentrate on the beat of my heart and the swirling black. Breath held, my chest swelled and soon I burnt for air. That was when I gulped.

Everything changed. I inhaled the smoke, eyes rolling back. It choked me from the inside out and I couldn’t help it. My body fell to the floor and I was choking but I loved it. I loved this strange feeling, the closeness to death and the wave of adrenaline. In every way it was unique. My body convulsed under the waves, under the anaconda squeeze. Air left my body and didn’t return. My muscles spasmed, gasping and begging for air but I didn’t let it. I breathed in the smoke and revelled in how close I was to the edge, ready to fall from the precipice and never return. With every gulp of black air I saw the light seeping in, and these waves were not something unreadable… but beautiful, fathomable.

I read the waves, let the smoke fill my mind with what it was dying to tell me. My heartbeat clicked erratically, following the pace of the shadow that walked away in the distance. My head grew light and I was floating, body stopping the violent shakes and grew its own darkness. Eyes closed, body tied, I was dragged into a new darkness. All I could hear was the distant sound of shoes against the tiles, the shadow that had taken me here limping away in unusual time, bobbing its head to the sound of _cli-click… click cli-cli  click-click-click click-cli click…_

     -… --- - - --- -- // .-.. . …- . .-..

_…click- cl- click click-cli click-click-click cli-click-click… cli-click-click_

Behind my lids, I squinted. The footsteps didn’t stop when the dream ended. This time they carried on even as the sleep fell away and a dim light shone against my cold skin. The sound burnt away, but that was not the feeling that tore at my gut.

This was the feeling of information, whirring in my mind, wishing to be expelled and recorded somewhere reliable. I licked my lips, something scraping against carpet at the same time and took a rasping gasp.

“Petra Amelia Ral,” I choked then coughed, “age thirty two, year code U.L five , month seven, day twelve. Death date year code U.P eight, month one, day three. Cause of death, eclampsia complications listed… internal bleeding caused by the detachment of the umbilical cord. Location Ground sector two point four nine. Record deleted.“

As soon as the flow of words stopped my mind was silenced. The switch had been flicked and I felt the relief, the loss of all anxiety. The only sounds were that of the scribbling and the same _cli-click-click-cli cli-click-cli-cli_ as before. But my eyes were too heavy and I let them sit as they were, closed and leaded. I wanted to drift back into sleep, and I would have done, if not for the fact that a voice I recognised drifted from close to my ear.

“They’ve noticed that he’s gone.”

That voice, the deep voice filled with an unfamiliar richness, slightly broken but still smooth was close to me. I was trying so hard to figure out where I had heard it, sleep muddling the thoughts until I realised.

“They’re watching him that close?” Another voice rasped, further away.

But the voice I knew from somewhere piped back up. I heard the rustle of clothes and a deep sigh. The clicking continued by my head. “They’re asking people to keep an eye out. Seems as though he’s working on a PD for a Clement and it hasn’t been sent back. He’s,” the man took a long pause, letting the clicking fill the room, “he’s in trouble. Connected the PD to the database. Had some files on it. They think he’s gone into hiding, maybe with copies. Titans worrying that,” he stopped again, clicking his tongue to the roof of him mouth in the same pattern as the clicks, “that it’s throwing things off. The deletion of Petra’s file won’t help that.”

The other voice scoffed. “Well maybe your Princess can-“

That was the moment when my sleepiness wore off, bones no longer aching against muscle. My eyes shot open and  I sat up. That name had stuck in the darkness of the night, everything fitting together, harmonising. The strange voice, the clicking, the horrible name. My eyes snapped open and there he was, the man from last night.

He sat beside me, beside the bed I was lying in, and for the first time I looked at him properly.

In the faint light of the night before I had noticed a few things. His build was impressive, eyes dark and round. But it wasn’t just those things. I could see now that he was a typical Bottom; skin dark, hair now free from under the hood he wore last night a rich shade of brown and slightly curled despite its short length.  His clothes also differed massively from mine. Instead of the tight black pants and loosely fitted shirts worn in Centre, his were baggier, looser around the knees and ankles, lathered in pockets and ripped at the knees. The boots he wore had thicker soles, and buckles trailing from his ankle to the top, which was probably a third of the way up his calves. A silver chain was tucked into the top of his right boot. His shirt too. The thing was skin tight, black and every muscle rippling underneath it. The hood draped over the chair was loose, more like a scarf he had wrapped around his head than an actual item of clothing.

The most unnerving thing, however, was the partial mask.

The leather was dim and well worn, but the white neon jaw etched into it was discomforting. The bones were accurate, each tooth, each vertebrae in his spine as the mask trailed down his neck and filled the gap between the edge of the shirt leaving no skin uncovered. But over the top of it his gaze was warm, sympathetic.

I on the other hand was white with anger, already decided that I hated him, loathed what he had done to me. In a fit I swung my legs out of the bed and kicked the chair he sat on, watching him fall to the ground and gasp. The device in his right hand skitted along the floor and disappeared under a piece of furniture, clicking stopped.

“Hey!” The other voice growled and suddenly I too was on the floor, a concentrated weight on my chest. I looked up to see another man with his fist raised ready to make impact. I shut my eyes and braced.

I felt the rush of air draw closer to my face, the wind sucked around it. “Ares stop.” The other voice called. Cold skin touched my face almost gently, but the knuckles of a hardened fist bashed my cheekbone. “It’s not his fault, he doesn't know,” the voice sighed, relieved at the outcome and then in the back of his throat he began to click his tongue against the roof of his mouth, unable to stop.

The man on top of me looked down, narrow grey eyes slitted behind long black hair. My anger dissipated, I couldn’t hit him, couldn’t hit a Top, the pinnacle of perfection within society; strong, intelligent, beautiful. Despite the outlawed tattoos and piercings it was clear he was from Top; pale skin, dark eyes and hair, short in stature but muscled in such a way that a quick glance would never let you see. But then, with his knees against my chest and a clenched fist shaking in his attempt not to reel back just a short way and break my jaw… it was clear to see that he was powerful.

Dressed similarly to Hermes, Ares wore ripped black jeans, a thick studded belt dripping with chains and the seam at the sides pinned together. The shirt differed. It was looser and sleeveless and the viper slithering up from the tip of his elbow bared its fangs at his shoulder. Downward from that point were a mixture of thick and thin black bands, and a multitude of crosses littering his hands in varying lengths and designs. His neck was bruised, masking the compass just above the enlarged north facing downwards. His hair too was slightly odd. The common style for both Centre and Top at that time was an undercut, but his was long most of the way around but shaved on his right side to display a thick scar, perhaps six inches long, slashed from just behind his ear to the start of the longer hair, parting leaning just to the right. He too wore a lower face mask that started from just under his chin and zipped-up along the front. But just like the rest of him, it was off from what he should be, so different from what I was used to seeing… and yet the storming grey in his eyes demanded a respect I could not defy, and so under his grasp I relinquished.

Ares huffed bullishly, and slowly, eyes unblinking, slinked backwards over my bent legs and sat on his knees, ready to pounce if need be. His eyes stayed on mine for a long time and neither of us blinked. We just stared and stared until I could take the cold air against my eyes no longer and I blinked. Ares was looking at Hermes who was searching for the clicker before I opened them again.

“You sure it’s okay being here?”

The clicks at the back of Hermes' throat stopped momentarily. The air seemed lost without them, the constant that forever filled the room. “Long short long letter, short letter, short letter, short long long short letter…” He whispered, thin eyebrows low over thinking eyes… “ space, short long letter…” Hermes swallowed, and Ares watched him stop his whispering to click once again, hand fumbling under a cabinet. “They’re keeping an eye on all surveillance in his area,” he finally decides with a small hum of content. Hermes pulled out his clicker and began against, looking straight at me with a shrug of his shoulders. “Can’t go back, you’re a wanted man. Sorry about that. We’re stuck with him.”

“Well I bet you’re fucking-“

Their nonchalance threw me, angered me beyond belief. Hermes had taken me, forced something down my throat using his _tongue_ then dragged me back to fuck knew where and told me that I couldn’t got back. Of course I was angry, I was seething, teeth gritted and gnawing against themselves. “You,” I spat, sitting up. Hermes’ eyes widened at my outstretched finger and on my knees I paced toward him, the clicking speeding up as though it tracked his anxiousness. “You… this is _your_ fault.”

He nodded. “I know that and I’m really sorry but-“

“You drugged me, forced me wherever this is against my will then told me I can’t go back. And then,” I stood, looking over the two men, Ares jumping up to try and match me, fists raised. “And then all of that forces an episode and you think it’s okay to just say sorry?”

“Is that what you call them, episodes?” Hermes asked.

I snorted back. “That’s not the point,” I barked. “The point is that _you’ve_ managed to ruin my fucking life, filthy slummer.”

“Hey-“ Ares stared, reaching his hands out to grab mine and with one swift tug pulling me towards him. I stared down at him already so much higher than me without trying, defending someone so much lower than him as though it were normal. “You call him a slummer, you call me one too, got it?”

“Fuck you.” I spat. My gut instantly told me that I shouldn’t have said it, swirling its horrible instruction, the wrongness of my words. “I just want to go the fuck back to work. Let me fucking go!”

“Not until you answer Hermes’ question. So I suggest you pipe the fuck down, _tool_ ,” he spat the Top insult, “and so as I say before I let the real Ground slummers get at you.”

I squirmed in Ares’ grip but he was strong. There was no way he would let me go, no way for his fingers to stop clamping harshly against my biceps, no way that I could go against my gut and hit him or insult him as I had Hermes. I was so, so stuck; stuck answering a question I didn’t want to answer.

The silence was filled with an urgent clicking. Two pairs of eyes landed on my face simply waiting for an answer to pass my lips. Hermes was the first to talk.

“Is what you said about Petra true? Is that what an episode is?” A voice filled with concern and precaution. I looked at the Top, his eyes commanding, and sighed.

“Yes. And yes.”

“It’s entirely accurate?” Ares’ question was firm and unwavering. His grip loosened on my arms and I took the opportunity to step back and think.

I thought of my episodes, the same corridors, the same infinite cabinets shining in an unseen light, purer than anything I had ever seen before. It was always a shock waking up from a perfect almost angelic world to the grey, the smog and the sound of the trains whipping through the air along the tracks. The first time I remembered one, the one I had just experienced. All of them…. they were the same, but different. Their outcome never differed.

“Always.” I replied. “Never made a mistake.”

Ares nodded. “Okay.” He turned to Hermes. “The information matches?”

“From the hospital, yes. Their notes marked that he had told a nurse of three people who would die in a car crash three days later. I found their graves but their death certificates… gone. I can’t find them. Been erased.” I swallowed hard at the memory, of telling the nurse about how these people would die. She had shrugged it off. Ares looked at me with a mixture of concern and annoyance as Hermes talked. “Other than that I can’t get much more information. That was the only one he was hospitalised for since the seizures caused head trauma and the PD picked it up.”

“So you can’t tell if this is true?” Ares asked him, but I interrupted.

“They’re always right. All of them. Can’t change them either.”

The Ground and the Top looked at each other quickly, both scowling. The clicking continued, _click-cli-cli click-click-click cli-click-click…_ its rhythm soothing. My anger dissipated, the looks on their faces slowing from concern to worry. Ares huffed and put his hands on his hips.

“I’ll tell Hecate and Apollo. They’re the only ones here.”

Hermes smiled. “Don’t be too long.” Those words threw me, Ares listening with a nod and leaving. I had never seen a Ground command a Top before, it was unheard of. Hermes took the chair he had sat on previously. My eyes were focused on the door. “Please relax Jean. We aren’t here to hurt you.”

“You’ve done a pretty shit job so far.” I snapped.

Hermes sighed lightly, leaning back into the chair. “You’re right. This must be hard for you to get your head around.”

I didn’t justify a response, instead sitting down at the end of the bed, the sheets crumpled and white, and sighing.

His clicking continued and I wanted to ask. From the corner of my eye I watched his thumb tapping away at the small silver object, the lever with a worn thumbpad bouncing up and down in a quick pattern. In some ways it was comforting, others annoying. I just wanted to ask him why he was doing it.

But of course I didn’t. Instead I rudely slapped my arms down on my legs, lips tight.

“Stop clicking.” I muttered. Hermes looked up, deep brown eyes confused but he continued with a small smile.

“If you want me to stop clicking then I’ll only say it out loud.” _Click-click-click click-cli-cli-cli click-cli-cli-cli…_

I swallowed, noticing how the leather of his mask crinkled. He must have been smiling. “What?” My voice croaked but the clicking ended, the clicker still in his hand but on his knee, and Hermes lifted his left hand, fisting it loosely and pretending to cough into it.

“Achem,” he began, eyebrow rising, “short letter, short long short letter, long short long long letter, short long short long short long period. Long sho-“

“I get it I get it.” The smile in his eyes were evident, skin seemingly almost black in the dark light. “What is it?” I asked.

“A pain in the arse, that’s what it is.” I frown at the Ground’s tone and he notices, couching lightly and shuffling in his chair. “Morse,” he states quietly. “It’s an encoded language.”

We sat in silence, bar his clicking that is. I wanted to ask more questions but they all seemed ridiculous and childish so I pushed them to the back of my mind, instead thinking of how I could get out of that room.

It was fairly large and rectangular, a metal desk in one corner and the bed pushed to one wall leaving the left side only free to climb on and off. The floor was smooth concrete, walls plasterboard littered with scribbles and here and there a screw head. One set of drawers sat a few feet away from the bed. The door too was metal, and bolted heavily. It sat on the far wall, the dim light from the single window shining onto it.

Bored I got up and walked over to look out. Hermes’ eyes followed. The sky outside was a deep green, the sun rising between an ancient looping building glitching in and out of existence, the light fading and then gleaming green again. The whole sky flashed a sickly light. The buildings stretched around a chasm I was a the end of, bridges stretching from one side to the other and cars passing through them erratically and with no thought of lanes or safety. It was hectic. A ship was being dismantled on a busy port, people stealing parts of the engine without the workers even giving a damn, the lights from the few low shops flickered with the sun so that when it went dark, everything went dark. And below… below were stilts melting into a thick mist that whirring tubes occasionally rose from with a spurt of oil following. Flames jumped into the sky, billowing smoke constant. This was Ground, the city at the base of the three levels. The slums of the world, the place where all races mixed and nothing was against the law. There were no set jobs, no rules and no method to the madness. The people were tough, their lives short-lived and prone to gun shots and disease… people well known for their thick skin and inhuman strength. Known also for being uncivilised.

And there I was, a Centre, educated from the age of six to know how to dismantle anything electrical and put it back together. Two parents that I barely knew, one of twenty-six children from that pair, raised to be a worker and dying to be one too. Living in a world of bright lights, billboards and long days. Of customers from Top and businesses from the same area, moving from company to company every three years starting from the age of sixteen to improve my skills, and on my second cycle. Aspiring to one day become a manager and perhaps live the dream of going to Top. Centre, where everyone had a purpose decided years before, workers made for working, breeders made to make the next generation of those who feed, who fix, who do the dirty work for the people up top without questioning their lives.

I never questioned it.  No one did. My parents thought that was how it worked, as did theirs… as did theirs.

And seeing Ground… my head spun. I thought my world was grey but theirs was bleak. Their sun was not the sun I knew, too bright and false. Everything was filthy from the dirty skin of the people that slunk their way past the window to the rusting metal of the buildings. None of it was right. Everything was out of place and felt horrible. My skin crawled, head buzzed with the pain of trying to figure out how their world ran. Who did what? Who worked where, dealt with who? What was their purpose? How did their lives work? How did they live without a purpose?

It blew my mind. I was shaking, holding the windowsill and glaring out at the people all dressed similarly, all without the masks Ares and Hermes wore but still in the same clothes, some with weapons slung over their shoulders, some with knives in their hands. It was harsh and unruly and for the first time I realised how lucky I was. The Ground in the room was nothing like that; he was reasonably calm, still sitting on the chair and clicking away almost therapeutically. The other man- the Top- was worse, a coiled spring with enough action to take me out with one swift action, without a thought. I was scared, no, terrified. I breathed out heavily, the air stale from holding it in for so long.

“Must be different, huh?” A new voice, low but certainly female, comes from the door. I spun to find a woman leaning against the doorframe. She too was obviously a Ground, although her hair was lighter, slightly redder in the faint light. She stretched her arms over her head, cracking her neck beneath the archway they created, and arched her back. Her thick glasses slid down her nose and after a quick crack of her knuckles she pushed them back up.

Behind her was a young man, also a Ground but this time with unusual, vibrant green eyes on top of a stiff collar laced at the side. His eyes studied me with some distain but looked to Hermes quickly and then softened, still wary. His brown hair was long and shaggy and missed the usual undercut entirely. Dressed similarly to Ares he also had tattoos, the same bands up the opposite arm and the sun shining a bright red on his left shoulder. The boots he was wearing were undone, the buckles shaking as he shifted one leg casually behind the other and leant against the doorframe.

“Don’t think you’ll get too comfy here tool.” His voice was low and rough behind the thick of his mask but Jean could still hear the playful malice behind it. “Wouldn’t want you getting Ground filth on your clothes.”

“Apollo stop it.” Hermes warned, looking to the doorway again just as Ares put his head around the frame.

“He’s right. Your vendetta can’t get in the way here.” Ares took hold of Apollo’s arm and the Ground looked down eyes softening. There was perhaps half a foot between their heights and even though Apollo was clearly taller, the shorter Top had a power over him that was almost choking.

Apollo nodded lightly and sighed. His eyes rose back to look at me and they were clearly more passive. The slight anger was gone, the shine diminished. There was no backing own but also no submission. He felt at least equal despite his lower class.

The woman cut the stares with a step forward, her dark hand outstretched. “I’m Hecate, not my real name but it’s synonymous for the goddess of sorcery which was the closest thing the ancient Greeks had to science so I take it as it is. Good to finally meet you.”

Half dumbstruck I took her hand and shook it. “Jean,” I murmured back and beneath the weak black cloth of her mask I could see that she smiled. Still holding on to my hand she nodded then spun, hands still conjoined and bobbing, and pointed to each person in turn.

“That’s Apollo, and of course you know Ares and Hermes here.” I nodded lightly, confused by her warm welcome. “I’m just glad you’re here. Hermes and I have been tracking you for so long that-“

“What?” I cut in. Hecate only smiled again, their brown eyes wrinkling at the corners.

“Well we’ve been looking into the loss of files for quite some time but it was only after Hermes here went in search of the three peoples who you had prophesised a death for’s files that we started to think that perhaps we had another rogue case on our hands. So after some digging we found you.” Hecate’s smile grew wider, and she shook her head. The hair that had been pulled back shook out and down onto her face. She didn’t even notice it was there.

“Uh…” I paused a moment, finally realising that mine and Hecate’s hands were still connected. I pulled mine away and into my side questioning them with a look. “What’s a rogue?”

“Holy fuck he knows nothing.” Apollo cried, his hands flying up to tear at his hair. “We’re gonna be here all day.” He whined.

Ares tilted his head to the Ground. “That a prophecy or-“

“Fucking prophecy man I wish I was kidding right now.” Apollo groaned, Hermes snickered on the chair.

He sat forward and looked to me, voice soft and low. “A rogue is a person who displays characteristics unlike that of a normal NPC, which is what we call the average person. This can be anything from displaying an extreme level of intelligence and skill, or like Apollo and I, and also what we expect you do too, connect to The Network and read certain signals or bits of information.” Hecate nodded wildly. Hermes’ hand quickly switched over the clicker and carried on. “You’re in a facility right now that finds rogues and trains them to hone their skill to help track a group that we call The Titans. They run The Network.”

“So what’s The Network?” I asked. Apollo groaned and both I and Ares shot him a look.

Hecate spoke up.  “It’s all of the information from all three levels; Ground, Centre and Top, a ginormous computer system that runs between them all and ends up in an unknown location. It controls everything, or well, The Titans control The Network which controls the three levels. All NPCs are connected to the system.”

“An NPC is short for non-player character.” Hermes interrupted. “That counts for the majority of the population in all three levels and means that they have no connection to The Network’s system. Being involved or aware of its existence is what all rogues are. An ex-NPC like you can be a rogue, but a rogue like Apollo can never be an NPC, y’see. Their data is in the system but The Titans are unable to control it.” The clicking stops for a swift second, Hermes sighing in the gap. The tapping started again and he smiled up at me weakly. “It’s a complicated game.”

“This is fucking insane. I can’t deal with this…”

Apollo scoffed and leant into Ares’ side. “Yeah well this whole world is. Got’ta be just as mad to keep up with it.”

My head… it was bursting, _I_ was bursting. The seams were falling apart and I was going with it. The only woman in the room’s eyes grew sympathetic. Her voice was quiet. “I understand that this is a lot to deal with,” Hecate shrugged, patting my arm gently. “We’ve been through this too so we know, but we need you to understand that going back now would mean that we’d probably never meet again. That and you’ll more likely than not be incarcerated by the end of the day. We need you here but we can't force you.”

But I was sceptical, worried for myself and scared of these people. They were insane, genuinely the sort of people an average human would consider locking away. Their theories wild, their tiny ticks barmy. A rag-tag group of mostly Grounds who would have dragged me down with them and told me to conform.

Of course I wouldn’t want to go along with it. I couldn’t be part of it. Everything felt so wrong, everything in me rejected the ideas they put forward with steady conviction and I couldn’t bring myself to even try. My life was in Centre where I was just a man that worked on PDs, just a man who worked from nine until five six days a week and lived alone in a tiny apartment. Despite the excitement all I wanted was familiarity. I wanted to forget, pretend that I had never met these weird people who had stolen me and told me that the world was strange and go back to doing what I was comfortable with.

And so I moved away from the window and shook my head. Their faces grew despondent; even Ares’ eyes went blank.

Despite their warnings I didn’t listen and I spoke. “I can’t,” I muttered, “I want to go back.”

Hermes, his air almost tired, sighed and stood. His body slumped against the muscle. Despite himself, despite his look, he was soft, gentler than perhaps he first seemed to be. His eyes. It was his eyes that gave it away.

“I’ll take him.” Behind him Hecate nodded.

Apollo bristled, chest rising in anger. But a touch from Ares brought him back down and together they moved to the side, leaving the door wide open.

“Look after him on the way back.” Hecate told Hermes, and he nodded before turning back to me and smiling weakly. They all were, except Ares who glared. “You sure with this?”

“I…” I swallowed. “Yeah. I have to work.”

So Hermes walked me past Ares and Apollo, the latter rolling with waves of anger. His rare green eyes were dark and bitter but as Hermes walked past they fluttered to a relaxed close then opened. They stopped to have a silent conversation and I almost walked straight into Hermes’ back. Then, as though it had never started, they looked away and Hermes moved on.

We turned right down a corridor with similar floors and walls, concrete and marked, then right again down a flight of stairs. We jogged down them quickly. My breath soon ran out, his unwavered. “You okay with bikes?” He asked.

I didn’t answer, too out of breath. He took it as a sign that I was fine and as soon as we exited the building into air that smelt of burnt rubber he headed to a motorbike sitting on the side of the road, flat to the ground and long but wide, the body a shining black, and put one hand on the handlebar. The whole thing lit up, white lines scattering down the side of the motorcycle and across the thick wheels. Hermes lifted up the seat and pulled out a helmet.

“Only got one. You take it.”  He dropped a solid lump in my hands and I put it on knowing that it probably looked awful. He said nothing, instead shutting the seat down and straddling the lean spine of the motorcylce, body low to reach forward to the bars. One hand rested on the front whilst the other tucked into a pocket. The clicker was gone and he coughed and shook his head. “Get on.”

“You’ve got to be kidding…” I grumbled, realising that I’d have to sit behind him. The Ground took no notice, instead taking the foot closest to me and lifting from the ground to put it on the clutch. I walked over and swung my leg over the engine. My legs strained, the sides of my hips aching at how far they had to spread.

The curved back of the engine meant that my body leant into his. There was nowhere to grab and as he started the engine and pulled away far too quickly I ended up gripping the sides of the seat in vain.

The air was sulphuric. Hot and acidic, it never cooled, even as the speed of the bike picked up and Hermes flicked a switch on the handle. The back jet pushed, small fins flicking out besides my feet and we were airborne. Below, the smoke from the hole rose around us, waves of foul air that burned and dissipated in the engine.  The odd car and bike made their way around the bike, but mostly it was cargo ships pulling away from docks and straight upwards to either Centre or Top. Beneath my legs then engine whirred and in front of me Hermes clicked his tongue over and over, tasting the foul air on his tongue, breathing it in without worry.

We curved around the end of the dock before returning and heading upwards and outwards towards the lowering sun. It flickered a few times before blinking off completely and half of Ground went with it. Only the odd storefront and house was left in light and below was cavernous. I kept my eyes upward and tried to forget, fingers unable to grasp onto the seat any longer. They clamped around the back of Hermes’ shirt and didn’t let go. He said nothing and instead pressed his foot deep into the gas pedal until the engine roared and we were flying brightly, a lone light, through the sky.

That was when I noticed it.

In the darkness, just above his cheek was a scattered row of pin-prick dots running along the edge of his ears and down his cheek, a few below his eye and then across the bridge of his nose. And they glowed. Like the white light of the bike, and the faint shine of the fluorescent lines of his mask, the dots flushed and pulsed in strange and broken waves. Unsure and unattached. One by one they blinked on and off again, no pattern to their rhythm and yet oddly smooth. He had stopped clicking.

I watched them for the journey, noticing a few of the same dots on the back of his dark neck where the mask had ridden up slightly. My forehead was wrinkled as I tried to figure it out but couldn’t. There was no explanation, no reason why this should happen and yet I could see it without a doubt. The dots. Like tiny moons in the sky, and they phased in and out whenever they wanted to without sense of time. They became almost unnoticeable as we rose through a gap I had never known about between Ground and Centre, and the lights of the city watered them down.

The motorcycle flew low, now following the traffic as it should. The bike was an oddity; older and darker than the grey cars of Centre, but no one seemed to care. It touched down relatively quickly and Hermes pushed it right down an alleyway. He approached stairs but took no notice, racing the thing towards them and pulling the front wheel up so that it climbed, climbed up each of the steps with only a small jolt. The lights in his cheek glowed all together. I gripped my hands tighter into his shirt.

We turned right again and I suddenly recognised the high bridge between buildings I had been crossing the night before, the night I had met Hermes, where he’d-

The engine was loud, rumbling against the buildings. Below a garage glowed, a man looking up with his hand cupped over his eyes to try and glimpse the stripe of white flying above him. He went ignored as we carried on down the set of stairs at the other side and onto an empty street.

It must have been late. The sky was dark, tempestuous yet everywhere dead. Centre held its noise but had no cause. The siren that seemed so close shone no light. The blare of horns echoed.

Hermes slowed down, and sidled over to the right of the road. Above was my apartment, this road halfway up the growing tower. With the speed slowed I pulled away and held my hands to the seat either side of me. Cold against my palms. Outside the doors it came to a stop.

I shrugged myself off, taking off the helmet, my skin able to breathe and the sweat, thankfully, lifting. Hermes stepped off too and gently took the helmet from my hands and putting it on the still thrumming engine.

“Be careful,” he warned, cheeks momentarily dimming. His right hand twitched.

“I’ll be fine.” I snapped back. Hermes looked shocked for a moment before nodding quickly and standing straight, grabbing the helmet and putting it back inside the seat.

Above me the rows of lights seemed infinite, the lobby bright and warm. I turned and walked towards it without a second glance to the man out the front and his-

“Hey,“ I called, “why do you-“ but he was already beginning to pull away, one hand waving away from the handlebar. His face glowed.

“I’ll keep an ear out for you, Jean.” The slow movement of the motorbike rising from the ground, hot air pulsing against the ground, was almost mesmerising. I watched Hermes and the bike rise  just as he chuckled to himself quietly. “Look after yourself, Princess.” And with a flick of his wrist against the throttle he was gone, shooting off in a blurred line of white to scar my vision.  _Fuck him,_ I thought.

I blinked it out of my eyes and shook my head, turning back into the lobby. There was no guard, never was, and I passed through the night-lit room and into the elevator that shot up within moments to my floor and threw me out with a sharp ding.

It seemed quiet. There was no hidden soundtrack caused by the clicking. But I was sure that I didn’t miss it, for in that moment I sighed loudly and smiled, pressing my thumb to the keypad of my apartment door and opening it up into darkness. I kept the lights off, not signalling, and kicked off my shoes before collapsing on the couch. As always I could not be bothered to make it to the bed, not giving myself time between then and sleep to think of anything else but what I was doing.

 _Screw this_ , I thought, _screw them all._ I rolled myself up into a ball with my face to the back cushions and shut my eyes and concentrated on seeing nothing.

The darkness was pleasant, the light of the city a warm blanket that I needed, and in the security of my own home I felt relaxed, reassured.

My sleep was deep and uneventful and in the morning when the real, unwavering sun peaked through my still open blinds I barely noticed it, let alone the tall, dark figure standing on my balcony watching me through the glass, uninterrupted. As another figure joined them took no notice, the first figure signalling on their PD with a chocking crunch that I never heard. They waited and waited and I was unmoving, so worn from something I wanted to forget that I ignored the world and the words in my head.

No light penetrated, no sound interrupted. My mind wandered alone... and I was not the only one who was thankful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually have a few references that I worked with for this chapter, especially for Ground. [This](http://digital-art-gallery.com/oid/11/r169_457x256_3557_Landing_2d_sci_fi_cyberpunk_city_picture_image_digital_art.jpg) is what I was working from... Shoot me, I have a soft spot for cyberpunk.
> 
> I'm also running this off on a lot of TastyNetwork-slash-SuicideSheep-slash-7tumba, but this chapter was all Tom Day. It's like soft-step mixed with piano and it's beautiful... [Flemingtion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E56Fvk3q1KQ) and [Reflections](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KRWhBkEgc30) were my go-to for this.


	3. IM CHANGING SHIT UP!!  DONT THINK I UPDATED CAUSE I HAVENT. KIND OF ABANDONING THIS WHOOPS BUT NOT REALLY ITS JUST GONNA CHANGE SO HARD!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NOT AN UPDATE. WELL, KIND OF. THIS IS AN "I realised I did this wrong and posted it too early" UPDATE.

Alright, so.

Yo. Not an update, sorry. I'm just gonna explain what's going on with this pile of dung.

Turns out, I love the story plan but hate the format. So I'm doing something new for me; audio-ing it. Which means I'm basically writing an audio script right now. That's fun. It's cool. Kinda ambitious considering the fact that my timekeeping is diabolical. But it won't be done for a while, and when I say a while I mean like... I'll probably be thinking about releasing things in August when exams are done and I'm home free for a while. So far. Away. Time-wise.

Like, right now, I'd say that it's gonna be a mix of audio and text, because I said so. However, I'm still contemplating whether I'm gonna do the audio myself or, like, grab a bunch of people, or get someone else to help me... I mean, my voice is actually pretty darn good when recorded, (making up for my face) it's just in my head people have accents and I can literally only do Irish, Scottish, a very vague Birmingham accent, and something bordering on offensive when it comes to American. So I ain't the best. If you wanna offer your services then that'd be awesome, but you don't have to I mean it's ur choicewateverlike. I'd be indebted though, and you'd get, like, overseas birthday presents and I'd give you fruit roll-ups and Frubes and fuck I'd be such a good parent.

So... I'm keeping this up here for people to like, browse... Or something, I don't know. Think of this as a pre-release that went wrong; early access before a remodelling. But I guess within about three months I'll have a sturdy outline of the format and all that. Storyline is planned already, though, has been for a while. So that's good. It's just figuring out //how// exactly I want it to be. (I'm a complete dork when it comes to how things are presented, don't judge.) And by that time I will have finished with the writing and editing, hopefully, I want to have an idea of what to do voice-wise. Because the voice shit is really specific for me. It's not podcast-ey or audiobook-ish. More like BBC Radio 4 except hopefully less boring. Kinda hard to explain without giving it away.

But seriously. I don't know whether people would like to get involved or not, but if you would then then I'd seriously pick others than having boring old me. Just tell me if you'd like to, and I'll talk to you about it. I'd hug you so hard. I'll do a script and plot release once it's done so y'all know what goes on and what happens and stuff. I'll probably so a Tumblr post on it too in the future (I'm Luukiead on there too.)

So that's it. I'm not happy with this version, so I'll remove it once the other one goes up as replacement. It just feels bad taking it down cause it's like I've given up on it, but it's just being given a drastic makeover because I messed up the first time. Rising from the grave and all. Go 'head and h8, or whatever. I'm an eejit. I'll sort my shit out, finish the others and then BOOM... Do this.

Have fun yo.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Yes, I know, bad person for writing another one. I got in another Tasty spree and I ended up looking at their cyberpunk backgrounds, and that mixed with the Matrix post on Tumblr got me thinking. And I started with Marco and I've kind of fallen in love with the dude's backstory so I just wanted to write. 
> 
> So I'm planning on writing three chapters, the next to being considerably longer than this one, and seeing what you think. If I get the thumbs up then I'll carry it on alongside the other two, but if not then I'll leave this alone for a while and come back to it until one or both of the others are done. It's up to you, basically. Just tell me what you think.


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